


Strata

by inkstrain (orphan_account)



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/inkstrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confessions don't mean anything if nobody's listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strata

He likes watching those layers of Yuu's peel off, him to just him in high-def slow motion, epidermis washed away in stages by sweat, oil, and water. It's a process see, when the rhythm guitarist returns to himself from a live: creeping back into his own pale skin almost carefully like his body isn't his, as if it's something borrowed that has to be returned and put away, for later use.

 _Because we're all borrowed,_ Yuu whispers in the privacy of their hotel room, both himself and Aoi in halves with his makeup and costume only partly removed, smirk softened to a harmless smile by the absence of glaring stage lights. _Aren't we?_ And Uruha, who is now just Kouyou with his still damp hair falling over his eyes, he shakes his head and murmurs in the semi-dark, smoke curling out of his mouth to endless nil-

_No, not me._

But the older man doesn't hear the rest of his words, has already turned away to get ready for bed. The bathroom door opens with a creak and closes with a thud, leaving Kouyou gasping nicotine breaths into soot-stained lungs, chest torn open and dripping vivid prose that drench the bare covers a bloody red.

_You can't borrow me if I'm already yours._

  


And he is-  
_with every pluck and strum, ivory ribs like dented frets yearning the press of calloused fingerprints that aren't his own_

But Yuu doesn't know.

  


And Yuu doesn't find out even as he sinks within him and drowns; not even when Kouyou holds him close in cradle-like arms, boned and veined by more than just makeup-less flesh, treating all this as if it's something precious.

And it is, sometimes it _fucking_ is.

Especially as Yuu unravels with just the force of his hips and the warmth of his breaths, Kouyou's mouth on a spot above a frenzied heart, stuttering his confessions of _maybe, just maybe-_

Yuu leaves the bed to clean himself up as soon as they're done, and he's left on clammy sheets with his face on the pillow.

Whispering.

  


_Someday, won't you?_


End file.
